


don't cry, baby-bird

by morimaru



Category: Dragonlance - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
Genre: AU, Aphrodisiacs, Explicit Sexual Content, Forgive me for I have sinned, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, OOC Caramon, OOC Raistlin, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest, Twincest, Violence, before the Trial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29881341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morimaru/pseuds/morimaru
Summary: Caramon can't quite remember the events of the previous night. What he does remember, though, is the odd taste of mead, and then the burning need eating him alive - he wants, needs, something, so badly it hurts.
Relationships: Caramon Majere/Raistlin Majere
Kudos: 3





	1. the night before

**Author's Note:**

> so, uh. yeah. this is a thing. I actually wrote this one back in 2015, in my native language. it actually got somewhat popular because chewing glass is fun I guess?? either way, I recently rediscovered this and decided to translate it into english just to check out if my mad writing skillz got any better. and also I kept having obsessive sequel thoughts (yeahh five years later it was originally posted). you know, as one does.   
> apparently, violence is the only thing I write about.  
> thus, I present to you this abomination. I'm going to hell. mind the tags, people!

In a lot of ways, Raistlin reminds him painfully of a bird – thin, with hard yet fragile bones that feel almost glass-like, surprisingly light; he barely weighs anything in Caramon’s arms whenever he picks him up, his heart thumps frantically fast in his fine-boned chest, and his body emanates heat so fierce that at times it seems like he’s about to burn alive.

He’s so weak, sickly, _breakable_ , that every time Caramon touches his twin, he’s afraid he might just accidentally damage him irreparably with his huge, awkward, too-strong hands of his. Should his touch be a little too forceful – and a spider web of cracks will run all over his brother’s body, and then he’ll fall on the floor and break into hundreds of tiny pieces, like that porcelain cup that Caramon dropped on the floor last Sunday (and Raistlin was proper mad at him for being so clumsy). For the most part, being treated like some sort of fragile little doll does nothing but infuriate Raistlin to no end. Any other day, he’d readily choose being pushed around but treated like a normal human being over Caramon’s ridiculous over-protectiveness.

Any other day but today.

-What- What in the name of- What are you _doing_?

Both of them are lying on the floor, with Caramon forcefully pushing his twin into the floorboards and leaning over him – he keeps him there seemingly effortlessly, despite Raistlin’s increasingly forceful thrashing, one hand gripping both of Raistlin’s thin wrists together, the other arm pushing down on his chest; his knees are pushing Raistlin’s legs apart. Raistlin won’t stay still; his half-hearted fidgeting quickly turns to full-on struggling, he’s turning this way and that way, helplessly trying to force his way out of his brother’s iron grip, bony knees and elbows wriggling ineffectually. It’s a helpless, losing fight.

Caramon’s eyes are suddenly dark and murky, like bog water, and they glisten brightly in the dancing candle light, and he doesn’t really react to any of Raistlin’s protests – just keeps staring him down with an unfamiliar, hungry gaze. Raistlin, despite blood still gushing out of his nose (the result of Caramon first pushing him down on the floor with a sudden, painful slap to the face), looks angry rather than scared, like this is _nothing_ \- but there’s newfound fear flashing in his pale blue eyes, same color as Caramon’s. Both of them are panting heavily: Caramon from what looks a lot like excitement, and Raistlin out of sheer exhaustion that took hold of his sickly body unfairly quickly. Exhaustion – and fear.

Fear. He’s scared. Scared of _Caramon_.

Really, he’s almost about to cry. He wants to cry, to scream, to shout – from anger, frustration and quickly mounting panic. He’s not a child; he knows lust when he sees it, and the way his own brother spreads his legs and gropes blindly underneath his night shirt makes the whole bizarre situation painfully crystal clear. He's too weak to get away, his recent fever not helping matters whatsoever.

Whatever it is, there’s no escaping this. Not for him.

For Caramon, _this_ is quite new. He knew that his twin was attractive – they both were, in a different way, and people claiming that Raistlin was anything but always bewildered him – it was a simple fact for him – but he never quite saw him like _this_. Narrow shoulders. Those skillful, elegant fingers. Fine-boned, delicate lines of his face. Long legs. It is rather confusing, the way it happened so suddenly, because men never really attracted him before, never mind his own _brother_ , whom he loved only in a way a brother should. He loved women, always; loved the way their soft bodies moved, the warmth and fullness of their breasts, their long colorful ribbons and flowing skirts and blouses – loved the way they gripped him tight in throes of pleasure, the way he could make them feel good and those little happy noises they made when it was all said and done.

There’s nothing soft and feminine about Raistlin, aside from his long chestnut curls. He’s sharp and angular, bony and long and a bit awkward and burns you like hot coals grabbed with bare hands from a raging fire.

And yet-

Somehow, right now, Raistlin – his dearly beloved brother, his twin, his fragile, angry Raistlin who always pushes away and rejects Caramon’s touch and love and care – he looks so _beautiful it's heartbreaking_ , and Caramon wonders quietly to himself how he’d never noticed this before. He’s beautiful in a quiet, vulnerable way that is almost detached from their normal life together, it’s almost unearthly. It’s the sort of beauty that makes his face warm and blood rush down. The sort of beauty that makes it hard to breathe. Hard to breathe with how excited you are.

He wants – no, needs- He _needs_ -

When his brother’s hand, dry and rough and calloused from his daily practices with the sword, lifts up the hem of his night shirt and rests heavily on the pale, smooth skin of his thigh, Raistlin squeezes his eyes shut. A short, dry sob pushes its way out of his constricting throat.

-Come now, - Caramon murmurs to him, as normal as could be, as if he was just comforting him after yet another vicious nightmare, - Calm down. Do not be afraid. I love you so, Raist. I do.

This is the first thing he’d said to him all evening, ever since that first push to the floor, and Raistlin perks up, feeling a rush of hope.

-Don’t, - he whispers hotly, feeling that rough hand crawl further up, to his chest, - Caramon, stop. Don’t. Please.

In response, Caramon stops. It’s almost as if he’s thinking deeply. His hand stops halfway on its way towards Raistlin’s chest as well, and he freezes underneath him. He waits with baited breath. Could it be- Could this all be just a massive, idiotic joke that went too far and for too long? Caramon wasn’t the sharpest knife in the shed, and Raistlin could distinctly smell a hint of alcohol on his breath, especially now that they were so close to each other. Mead from the tavern, if he had to guess – _wasn’t there some sort of big celebration there today? Caramon mentioned planning to go there_ , he thinks. He wouldn’t put it past his brother to try and pull some stupid stunt when drunk. Surely, that was all it was – Caramon couldn’t seriously try and- He wouldn’t-

Raistlin waits. His body shudders quietly from head to toe from tension and cold; his shirt is up to his neck, and cold draft from the window slides up and down his body uninhibited.

And then his brother _snorts_. Loudly. It’s a sound full of mockery. As if Raistlin’s question was so ridiculous there was no other reaction it deserved. Caramon snorts and scoffs and everything inside him clenches tightly; he can feel the quick burn of angry tears and nausea rise up in his throat. _No._ His brother’s breathing burns Raistlin’s ear and the side of his neck. Caramon’s hand, cold and dry, explores his body freely, traces gently over every protruding rib on his too-skinny chest and finally stops on one of his nipples. He rubs it, teasing the nub of dark-pink flesh with the pad of his finger, and pinches it lightly until it hardens; he finishes off the manipulation by pinching the other nipple painfully, almost twisting it. Raistlin shudders underneath him soundlessly. His gaze is somewhere far away. _No._

When Caramon tries to kiss him – but first, he traces a long line on that open, vulnerable neck, from a collarbone right up to his ear, and his tongue just this little bit more hot than Raistlin’s skin that is still too-warm from his recent fever – _that’s_ when Raistlin starts to struggle again. He flails suddenly, and throws his head to the side, turning his face away, and he squeezes his eyes shut again. He doesn’t want to see that look on his brother’s face; and yes, it’s scary to endure this in the dark, but seeing this horrible, _loving_ expression on Caramon while he was clearly _raping_ him – that was so, so much scarier. He presses his lips together and clenches his teeth. But the taste of his skin, _salt and herbs_ , pushes Caramon further, and in his irritation at Raistlin’s resistance, he sinks his teeth into his brother’s shoulder.

Raistlin cries out when they puncture the soft, thin skin, and his body arches with pain in a helpless attempt to get away; that’s when the first tear finally escapes and rolls down his cheek. Caramon doesn’t let go. He presses his mouth to the fresh wound and laps up the welling up blood. To him, it tastes sweet – tastes just right, and for that taste alone he immediately forgives Raistlin’s stubborn resistance. He finds that he can even forgive him his tears, even though the sound of it as he drinks – a sound long-since-familiar to him, muffled hitching breaths, a tell-tale sign of his brother’s fear, sound that woke him up all hours of the night for _years_ – breaks his heart. When he finally finds it in himself to break away, the wound seems red and swollen and irritated, and this time Raistlin doesn’t turn away from his kiss. His dark lashes are wet, and his lips open limply when Caramon pushes his tongue into his mouth. His kiss is deep and greedy and practiced, a kiss of an experienced lover.

Raistlin does not kiss him back.

-There… we go, - Caramon pulls back only to breathe, gulping the air in and breathing just as deeply and greedily as he kissed him, - There, - he says again, sounding a bit breathless, - Wasn’t that hard, was it?

Raistlin doesn’t look back at him. He doesn’t even open his eyes. It’s almost like he’s doing his hardest to pretend Caramon isn’t there. Not the first time it happens – Raistlin doesn’t like to be bothered when he’s deep in thought – but it hurts nonetheless. Caramon doesn’t like that.

-Raist, - he frowns as he leans in closer, - Raist. I love you, you understand that, don’t you? I’m doing this because I _love_ you.

Raistlin’s wet, red lips twitch, but he keeps quiet still. Not a word. Caramon stares.

-Well, - finally, he says, and in the damn silence of their secluded little house his voice sounds so oddly cheerful that a wave of downright terror washes over Raistlin, swallowing him whole, - Well then. Even if you don’t want to say it, brother… - and there, he presses a quick kiss to the teeth marks on his twin’s shoulder, a cruel parody of a knight kissing his lady’s hand in devotion, - I still love you, and you – you love me. We’re twins, Raist. What’s so wrong about loving each other?

 _Nobody told you to love me like this_ , Raistlin thinks. Something in Caramon’s demeanor nags him – something besides the obvious, besides how strangely unhinged he seems. If only he had some time to think, then maybe he could put his finger on it, figure it all out, stop it until it went too far-

Still, he says nothing. And Caramon, he…

He suddenly releases his tight hold on Raistlin’s wrists.

For about a second, the young mage just laid there, on the floor, with his eyes tight shut, wet with stubborn tears and wrists crossed over his head, his body motionless and open to the eye. Then, he slowly and cautiously cracked one eye open.

As soon as he did that, Caramon grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulled him up and violently tore the fabric open – he was tired of that shirt getting in his way. The fabric gave way with a loud rip, disturbingly easily tearing into two parts. Raistlin, then, blindly pushed to the side, scrambling away from his brother hastily – but it was too late by then, and Caramon grabbed him by his long hair and pulled him first up, then down, to the floorboards, until his head hit the hard wooden surface with a resounding crack.

Raistlin did not lose consciousness, thought he expected to, but the world around him tilted sideways rapidly; a high-pitched ringing rose in his ears. Numbly, he watched from the floor as Caramon leisurely pulled the belt out of his pants. He half-expected for him to take off his pants as well, right then and there, since everything seemed to be heading in that direction – he felt so, so cold at the thought of what would come next – but instead of that Caramon sat down next to him, pulled his bony wrists together yet again and looped his belt around them. Then again, and again, until the thick leather made it impossible to move his hands freely. He secured it with a double knot – just to make sure that his brother would have no chance of forcing his way out.

-Not too tight? – he asked, his tone almost caring.

All Raistlin could do in response was blink wetly, bewildered, almost certainly now in shock. He could feel the blood draining away from his fingertips, but saying that outloud was out of the question – he had hard enough time keeping his eyes open. Caramon, in what he must have intended to be a comforting gesture, stroked his cheek, smearing the blood from his nose after that first hit, and then turned his attention back to his pants. After working the ties open, he pulled them down and then stepped out of them entirely.

As much as Raistlin tried not to look directly at his brother’s crotch, he couldn’t _not_ look – and then, having seen his brother’s member fully erect, seemingly awfully long and big, shook. It was too much – all of this was too much. He didn’t want any of this, he didn’t understand why Caramon was doing this – couldn’t and didn’t want to understand.

Even though the mere sight of his privates exposed obviously did nothing but horrify his twin, Caramon still couldn’t help but feel a little proud after seeing Raistlin’s reaction; he knew that he looked quite impressive, as he’d been told before, and was almost flattered by that look on his brother’s face, by those tearful eyes. It was rare to see him open like this, stripped down of all of his defenses, all the walls torn down – and it was him this time who did this. With his mouth dry, eyes locked on the sight of Raistlin curled up on the floor, his shirt torn and hands bound, he touched the tip of his cock. Pre-cum was already gathering there, so aroused he was. Slowly, he spread it over his fingers and made a couple of nice strokes, enjoying every second of it.

The only upsetting thing about all of this was how Raistlin still seemed to be so intent on making it all useless. While the thought of them two making love alone was almost enough for Caramon to burst, Raistlin didn’t seem excited at all. In fact, when he moved slightly, Caramon could just see his groin that he tried to cover up with his knees and torn edges of his night shirt – and he wasn’t hard at all. Not even a little bit. Not a single twitch. It was small and pale and limp.

Was he _that_ hell-bent on upsetting Caramon even further? Him, his brother, when he went so far and beyond for him _all the time_? He knew that Raistlin could get into one of those rotten bad moods from time to time, and whenever that happened, he’d be so belligerent and stubborn it was easier to leave him alone rather than fight him. Usually, Caramon didn’t mind that – Raistlin had a lot on his mind, and his body being the way it was, he’d get tired so easily. And being tired made him cranky. It made him upset. Caramon could deal with that – in fact, he dealt with Raistlin’s bad moods for years now. So why couldn’t Raistlin just try and be nice to him this one time?

Pure stubbornness, probably. Sometimes, it appeared as though Raistlin pulled through all of his multiple illnesses on spite alone. This must be it. Spite. And here Caramon was thinking – stupidly hoping – that they could have some fun together. So now he was not only upset, but the realization that Raistlin was still trying to rile him up, to ruin this for him, intentionally- Well. It made him angry.

But Raistlin was his twin. They were all alone in the world. They only had each other now, for decades and decades to come. He might be angry, but he loves Raistlin still. His love doesn’t know any boundaries. Caramon belongs to Raistlin and Raistlin belongs to him. He, Caramon, has to take care of his brother. And if Raist, with all of his great brain, can’t understand that-

Well. Let it be so.

When Caramon stopped pleasuring himself and approached him, lowering himself to the floor next to Raistlin, he flinched and visibly tried to inch away from his brother. His face was all wet, with both those stubborn tears that he couldn’t, just couldn’t stop, and sweat, and his hair stuck to his forehead and blotchy cheeks. He had no doubts about what was about to happen, and dreaded it. He wished desperately for his brother to come back. His normal brother. His slow, sometimes annoying, beloved, kind brother. His twin. His better half.

-No, - he said, lips trembling, - No, no, no… No, please. Caramon, Caramon, don’t…

He could hear his own voice fading away. Paying no mind to his awkward attempts to slide away nor to his mumbling, Caramon grabbed his knees. He tried to clamp them shut as soon as Caramon sat down next to him; his stuttering breathing, not quite sobbing, was drowned out by the sound of his brother’s heavy breathing as they struggled. He tried frantically to keep his shaking legs together, while Caramon pulled them apart, his fingers digging in and pushing so hard – Raistlin knew that in a few hours, he would have bruises there, as well as on his wrists.

He knew he wouldn’t win.

This was bad, Caramon thought. This just wouldn’t do. Obviously, Raist couldn’t do much against him, his twig-thin arms and legs useless against his trained physique – but the sheer audacity, the mulishness to continue and try to deny him what was rightfully his – it was driving him mad. Raistlin had to be doing this on purpose – just to make him angry, despite how patient and caring Caramon’d always been with him.

It took some effort not to lash out. Caramon pulled a smile on his face.

-Stop, stop this, - he whispered, - I love you. It’s going to be alright.

Raistlin – whose legs now lay, spread open and lifeless, on the floor, after a brief struggle – shook his head mutely.

-And now, - then, Caramon’s gaze dropped decidedly lower, - We need to prepare you. Here, - he softly opened his lips and pushed two fingers inside; Raistlin made a muffled protesting sound, - I need you to suck on them.

Raistlin wasn’t quite sure what made him do this – perhaps, desperation, the final realization that this wouldn’t stop unless he did something – but when he felt those fingers in his mouth, their length poking his tongue, his throat, the crawling motion inside him making him more nauseous than ever before, and heard his brother telling him to suck on them – he squeezed his eyes shut and _bit down as hard as he could_.

Raistlin has seen him angry before, but never has this anger ever been directed straight at him. He couldn’t run away or cover himself, couldn’t even cower in fear – all he could was try and convince himself that he can live through this, he can do it, with the sickening warm taste of Caramon’s blood in his mouth. Gods, he was mad. He was furious. He clearly abandoned any attempt to try and be gentle with him; he grabbed him by the waist and turned him over on his stomach.

-If that’s how you want it, - he bit out, -Be stubborn however much you want. I always did think that you were smarter than me, but this- If you’re so intent on denying me until the end-

Feeling those hands, one of them wet with blood, spreading his buttocks apart, send him into a frenzy. He was shaking spasmodically, harder than ever before, now completely overtaken by panic, and tried to crawl away – hands still tied in front of him and not caring a single bit about how pathetic he would look to Caramon. There was never any chance of getting away, though, as he was immediately grabbed by the hips and pulled back, knees dragging painfully on the rough wood. Raistlin could feel his cock touching first his buttocks, then – poking into his anus, too hot and too big and _by the gods he never, never wanted any of this, he would never be able to forget the feeling of his brother’s cock on his body-_

And he felt those hand grip and squeeze his hips so bruisingly hard, and then Caramon suddenly pushed forward, pulling Raistlin’s body back towards himself, and _pushed in with a grunt-_

He blacked out, just for a moment, and then came to, screaming. He awoke _because_ he was screaming. Caramon, without a shred of remorse, still was trying to force his way into Raistlin’s body, pushing and pushing, even though Raistlin passage was far too narrow and dry for it to be quick and painless – for both of them, and _oh, oh, he’s_ barely _in and it hurts this much!_

Raistlin screamed, feeling his throat give out from the sheer force of it; pleading and promising mindless little things to stop it; Caramon panted and just went on, without stopping, even though he had to be in pain, too. Raistlin could feel the muscles tear under that constant, unyielding pressure – tear instead of stretch, and any attempt to somehow halt the penetration only made the pain worse. Caramon slowly but surely slipped in, inch by inch, however much Raistlin squirmed and shook underneath him; the blood from his tearing skin and muscles ran down his legs in dark rivulets and acted as a lubricant, slicking his brother’s cock and making it easier for Caramon. He’s pushing, but it’s not quick, no, it’s almost intentionally slow – and then he stops, as if to give both of them a break.

Raistlin breathes, going limp on the floor. The only thing keeping him up is his brother’s hands.

Then, Caramon exhaled, and leaned into him with all of his weight, yanking Raistlin back at the same time, in one last burst of movement – finally and completely impaling him on his cock. The echo of his hoarse, unintelligible scream rolls all over the house; Caramon cringes, almost expecting to hear the windows crack. The walls of his intestine hug his member tightly, and though it’s a bit uncomfortable just because of how tight Raistlin is, it’s so, so wonderful: it’s warm and wet, and slight pain from its narrowness only gives this special edge to the pleasure. Caramon holds his breath and stays still, buried inside that warmth, taking in and enjoying every precious moment of their unity. _Finally_ , he thinks.

What Raistlin’s feeling can’t be that much different from being stretched out on a torture rack. Caramon, now finally all the way inside of his body, isn’t moving yet – just for now, probably giving himself some time to adjust – but he will, soon, and it will be painful. It will be unbearable. Even now, in this tortured stillness, it’s incredibly uncomfortable, if one could even use this word to describe this horror. Whichever way he moves, pain doesn’t go away. It’s hard to breathe with the weight on his back. His hands are going numb.

Raistlin feels like somebody’s glove, old and dirty and pulled tightly over someone’s too-big hand. Ready to tear apart at the seams.

…when Caramon does start to move – little by little at first, backwards, then forward again, until his ball hit his buttocks with that skin-on-skin slap that echoes from wall to wall – he realizes with quiet satisfaction that Raistlin isn’t screaming anymore. Rather, he’s whining, low, like a newborn puppy, and his breathing is fast and uneven. Almost hysterical. Caramon can hear tears in his hoarse voice, ruined by all of his previous screaming, and almost feels bad. But then his finger, the one that Raistlin almost bit through, burns again, and he decides that this is not his fault; it’s all Raist and his bloody stubborn nature.

-In a bit... Oh, gods… Raist, I love you- In a bit, you’ll feel better. Yes. Raist, oh-

Raistlin is doing his best not to listen to Caramon’s feverish mumbling. He concentrates on the movement. Forward – backward. Fingers, biting into his rapidly bruising skin. Forward – backwards. Faster now. Don’t forget to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. Faster again. Forward – backwards.

Forward – backwards.

Breathe.

Raistlin doesn’t want to listen, because hearing Caramon’s voice reminds him yet again that this is his _brother_ that is raping him right now. He just wants it to be over, because then he can take his medicine again and go back to sleep – it feels like his fever might be coming back. Yes, sleep. Sleep sounds good.

Hurts.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

But it doesn’t end, and it doesn’t end, and it doesn’t end and it doesn’t end, and it doesn’t end and it doesn’t end and it doesn’t end and it doesn’t end and it doesn’t end and it doesn’t end and it doesn’t end

Sharp, stabbing pain morphs into blunt, constant burning, tearing sensation; Caramon’s voice behind him moans and pants, calls him by his name again. Says that he loves him. Tries to comfort him, even – one sweaty hand slipping from his bony, hurting hip and to his head, tucking one curly, sweaty lock away from his face and behind his ear. It looks like it will be all over soon, because his movements become shaky and uneven: he almost punches into him one moment, pushing him into the floor, face rubbing against the rough, worn-out wood – he doesn’t quite have the strength to try and keep his head up – and then the next he’d just stop and stay inside him a while, breathing raspy into Raistlin’s back.

And then it

ends.

For the last time, Caramon pushes him down, slipping as deep down as he could, and groans low in his throat. His teeth brush over the bite mark on Raistlin’s shoulder, and then he feels it – feels the liquid warmth spill out from the inside. He doesn’t withdraw immediately and just stays there, the wet, awful warmth of his body pressing both of them down, and shuddering. Then he slowly, so slowly pulls out.

As soon as Caramon’s hands stop holding him up, he drops down completely, his hips sliding apart like that of a rag doll and hands still tied tightly in front of him. His fingernails seem bluish. A mix of blood and cum leaks out of his abused body and gathers in a small puddle on the floor.

He dares not move, but when he strains his ears, he can hear Caramon move, sound muffled and unreal is if he’s hearing it from underwater, or from some great, far-away depths. Caramon shuffles around, picks up his clothes and then retreats to his own room on unsteady legs. The door creaks behind him.

It is only once he fully realizes that he all alone in the room that Raistlin allows himself to close his eyes for good.


	2. morning after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caramon wakes up, and something's wrong.

Waking up in the morning, Caramon feels decidedly odd. It is not a painful sensation, and doesn’t feel the way a sickness feels settling in – no, rather, it is a pleasant, full-body kind of ache that only happens after a night full of love. What’s odd is that he can’t quite remember having anyone over the day before. He remembers the late evening at the pub, the jolly crowd and the taste of mead on his tongue; he also remembers going to bed, stumbling in the dark – but between those two points, between the sunlit skies and the late night inky darkness, there’s nothing.

Yawning, he stretches, rolling his stiff shoulders, and then sits up, throwing off the blanket-

-and sees that apparently, he did not change into his bed clothes the night before, not the way he usually did. His pants are undone, with the belt missing; moreover, his right hand seems to be hurting something fierce. Upon further inspection, he realizes that he’s wounded, and the reason his hand hurts is because he had been bitten.

And it’s not an animal bite, either. Definitely not.

The shape of teeth is unmistakably human. Someone bit down on his fingers with terrible strength; it’s a miracle his index finger's not broken – though the wound doesn’t look good, either, and clearly needs to be taken care of. It’s not bleeding anymore, presumably the injury itself having happened hours prior, but it’s red and angry-looking, with the edges swollen and irritated.

And on the fabric of his pants, he can see a whole scattering of spots, both dark and light in color. The dark ones are probably blood, but the light ones. Those are-

A cold, dark feeling settles in his stomach.

-Raist? – he calls out shakily, for some reason, - Raist!

This is odd. He can’t quite grasp the wandering thought in his now pounding head, but it’s all very, very weird. Raistlin is the best at untangling weird things, but for some reason his brother, usually a light sleeper, still hasn’t answered to his calls. Maybe he’s still asleep? His fever has only just gone down, after all – otherwise there’d be no way Caramon would’ve left him in the house sick and all alone, and went to pub to have fun while his twin suffered. No, he only ever went yesterday because he was sure that Raistlin was getting better. _He’s probably still asleep in bed_ , Caramon thinks morosely, _He must be so tired. Yes_ , he thinks _, that must be it. You buffoon_ , he whispers to himself, annoyed. He hopes he didn’t manage to wake him up with his stupid panicked shouts – and, having calmed down somewhat, swings his feet off the bed. Getting up, he has to hold the pants up with his hands awkwardly.

He decides that he needs a change of clothes before checking on Raistlin.

When he takes the pants off, he sees with disgust that his groin and thighs are covered in dried blood – not his own, since a quick inspection shows clearly that he doesn’t have any other injuries aside from that weird bite mark – and, what’s much worse, sperm.

The panic comes back full force.

After getting rid of the soiled clothes and hurriedly washing up in the basin – blood on his own teeth and the dirty aftertaste of alcohol in his throat, a grim reminder of something terrible that must have happened yesterday – he redresses and hurries into Raistlin’s room, half-consciously hoping to find his brother awake and alert.

Raistlin _is_ awake.

When Caramon steps into the room, he finds Raistlin lying crumpled on the floor, with his clothes torn, his hands tied at the wrists. There’s blood. A lot of it. At the sight of Caramon rushing to his side he recoils visibly, his entire body withdrawing back sharply as far as his obviously battered form would allow. The sound he makes is horrific – hoarse and panicked, almost animalistic, akin to that of a beaten dog. He sounds terrified, and his eyes- His eyes are wet with _tears_.

-By the gods, what happened?! – Caramon drops down next to him, his panic growing further as he notices dried tear-tracks on his cheeks, dried blood on his face and body and bruise after bruise _after bruise_ , - Raist, what happened, who did this to you?!

It is at that exact moment that he notices this Raistlin’s wrists are tied together with his own belt.

He also notices that Raistlin keeps staring at him, without even blinking, as if afraid to look away for too long; he’s shaking so badly, Caramon can hear the bony clattering of his teeth against each other.

Sure, no one couldn’t call him smart, but he wasn’t stupid. Even Caramon could put two and two together.

However, things being as they are, the answer that he gets after putting them together - the bite mark, the blood and sperm, his own belt, Raistlin's petrified figure on the ground - that answer is so horrific in its sudden clarity, that he's really not sure what to do after. Surely he would’ve remembered-That couldn’t be right – but it is _his_ belt and Raistlin’s _so_ scared that- It must be- _He couldn’t have, but he must have-_

So, Caramon does the thing that Caramon does best: he needs to take care of Raistlin first, and then figure out everything else later. This was always his first thought, the obvious decision. He'd done this his whole life. He can do it again.

Having made that decision, he, forcing himself to ignore Raistlin’s obvious attempts to try and shrink away from him, grabs the belt on his wrists first (he’s shrinking away from _Caramon_ , the one person that Raist always sought help and support from in his darkest hours; the thought that from now on Raist will always be terrified of him is so dark and insidious – unbearable – it’s all he can do not to burst into tears). It scares him, the way his hands look – gods only know how long he’d spent with them tied up like that. Those wonderful, thin-boned, long-fingered, graceful hands; hands of an artist, and writer, and a healer – now, they were swollen, almost white pale at the fingertips and dark, mottled purple at the wrists, closer to where the belt was. It takes him a while to undo the too-tight knots. Cringing inwardly, he takes it off, gently pulling it away loop after loop, and then throws it in the corner of the room in an abrupt disgust, like a venomous snake. It hits the wall with a clanging sound, and Raistlin – his brave, brilliant brother, flinches at the sound. His poor swollen hands lie on the floor next to him, still like those of a marble statue, like they don’t really belong to him at all. He’s still staring up at Caramon as if he’s expecting him to maul him any second now, but at least he’s not trying to move away anymore – just breathes loudly through his nose, a raspy in and out.

-There, - Caramon says, stupidly, hating the way his voice makes Raist jump up yet again despite him trying to make it as soft and calming as possible, - It’s alright, Raist. Your hands, uh. They’re gonna be okay. We just, um, we just need- Just need to get the blood to move.

He’s not a healer, but he knows that much. Slowly, so as not to scare him, he picks up one of those dead-looking hands – he doesn’t miss the _look_ that his brother gives him – and starts to carefully rub it, digit after digit, knuckle after knuckle. It’s obvious that Raistlin can’t do it by himself now, he doesn’t seem able to move, let alone do something more intricate. So Caramon will do it for him. Slowly, the fingers in his hands feel a bit warmer, look less like bizarre gloves and more like his brother’s hands. Raistlin cringes at every touch, but bears it with a grim, helpless sort of determination.

-Alright, - Caramon says once he’s done with that, - Now, we- We have to-

And that’s where he loses the string of thought. He’s not a healer, not even an herbalist. That was all Raistlin, not him, and the sickening combination of sperm and blood on his brother’s bruise-blackened, bare legs makes him tremble. His throat constricts with nausea. He doesn’t- He just doesn’t _know_ what to do here. Can’t even begin to guess. Does he need to stop the bleeding? Raist bled- He bled a lot, there. But it seems to have stopped by itself. It must hurt – does Raistlin need something for the pain? But what can Caramon possibly do, when the wound is- In a place like _that_?

He doesn’t quite notice himself stare, but he must have been, because Raistlin traces his line of sight and just _shrivels up_ : he’s pale and sweaty, no doubt in massive pain, yet he _still_ tries and pulls his limbs back in, his shaking, bloodied legs and barely-moving arms. He’s trying to make himself look _smaller_ , Caramon realizes sickly, and quickly turns his gaze away.

-I don’t, - he pushes out, swallowing nervously, - I won’t do anything, uh. Anything you don’t want me to do. Anything. But, uhm, we- We have to clean. Clean you. Okay? Wash it off.

After what he must have, seems to have done, those words seem downright laughable. Raistlin stares up at him again, and those pale blue eyes seem bottomless, glistening with tears. He can’t see a single trace of that sharp, calculating reason and that beautiful, great mind that made Raistlin who he was – they left, leaving only fear behind.

Caramon gives up.

-I’ll get you the towels, - he whispers, - And I’ll- I’ll leave if- - that thought hurt, would always hurt, probably, - Leave, if you’re afraid of me. Alright, Raist?

Raistlin stares. For a moment, Caramon was afraid that the Raist he knew was gone – that he was broken, _permanently_ , that his mind was gone, because he couldn’t see a shade of understanding on his bloodied face – but then his lips moved, just a bit, and he nodded weakly.

-I’ll get you some clean clothes, too, - Caramon added hurriedly, - Should I help you to the washbasin, brother?

Immediately, Raistlin shook his head frantically. Not wanting to upset him further, Caramon decided that if Raist wanted to stay here – then so be it.

He was almost out of the room when he stopped again, turned around.

-Is there, Is there something else? – Raistlin made no attempt to move anymore, now that Caramon was no longer right in front of him, - A cup of tea, for, uhm, your throat? Some of your herbs? Should I- Should I call someone?

Raistlin seemed to like it – his face lightened up, just a little bit. He even opened his mouth to answer, but the only sound that came out was dry and scratchy, practically unintelligible, and devolved into pained cough.

-Well. Then, uh, - Caramon digs around for ideas desperately, - Maggin? No? – Raistlin shakes his head, - Maybe, I could get something medicinal from her? For the, uhm, pain?

He shifts awkwardly, immediately thinking about _where_ that pain is, and _why_. So does Raistlin. Still, he nods, just a little, so it must be a yes. Caramon jumps back into guessing:

-I could try and find Kit… No? No, then. Maybe Tanis? He’s kind. He’d help with. Well. Something. I could- I could try to get to Antimodes, too.

Pause. A nod.

-Tanis or Antimodes? – he probes again, - Tanis?

A halting, reluctant nod. That reluctance – Raistlin must feel like he has no other choice. _Just how awful my presence alone must be, if he feels like he has to call for someone else, and I_ know _he hates it when others have to help him. if I- If I really was the one who did this, then- How can he look at me and-_

_No. No, now is not the time._

-Okay, - he takes a deep breath and starts counting on his fingers, - Hot water, towels, change of clothes, - he recounts the somber list, - A cup of tea for your throat, then something for the pain, and find Tanis. Right?

Raistlin nods.

All in all, he seems a good deal calmer than he was when Caramon first rushed into the room, but he can easily see that there’s no trust between them now – the wary, hard glare, the way Raistlin tracks his every step with his eyes, and the way he shakes subtly still – and he barely holds back tears as he turns around and finally leaves that room.

Leaves Raistlin alone.


	3. the one who looks on from the outside

Insistent, rough knocking on his door is what wakes him. Pale morning light and cool wind sneaking in through one of the half-open windows tell him that it can only be barely past dawn; early morning hours when almost certainly everyone is still asleep, after yesterday’s celebrations. Who could possibly need him at this hour? First day back in his own house after such a long journey, and this is what he gets, he thinks, rather grumpy as he pushes the blanket away. The one day he manages to get some good sleep is the one when his rest is disturbed. Any other day, he’d most likely be already up all by himself, but today – the day he fell asleep without any nightmares-

First sight that greets him when he opens the door, half-ready to tell off his visitor for coming that early, is Caramon’s bone-white face, with his eyes red and miserable. Those eyes maks him immediately go silent.

-Raistlin, he- He needs your help, - Caramon says, stumbling over words.

That tortured expression alone would be enough to have Tanis out of the house and following him in a breath; he realized that something was seriously wrong as soon as he saw it. But those words made him downright break into a run. _Raistlin needs your help_ , said Caramon. That suggested that the younger twin was the one to send him for help in the first place. Feeling a bad feeling rising like a dark sea wave during a storm, Tanis thinks that _this must be beyond bad, if Raistlin asked for help himself_. He knew that Raistlin hated being weak as he was, and he hated his constant, recurring need for other people to help him, and absolutely despised actually asking help in words. He flatly rejected the helplessness that his own body forced on him, and trying to help him when he didn’t want or asked for was akin to pulling a bear’s tooth out of his mouth – a feat not only ridiculously stupid, but also dangerous. For someone so sickly, he could be awfully intimidating, especially in his darker moments. 

So him, asking for help, could only mean one thing. The last time Caramon came to him for help, it turned out that Raistlin fell ill with a fever so bad that other people who knew the twins whispered among themselves: _this time, he won’t make it_. Tanis could barely look at Caramon, who could hardly keep himself upright due to sheer exhaustion, yet kept stubborn vigils by Raistlin's bedside day and night; his quiet grief was horrific, like an open gaping wound on his face. Tanis wasn’t particularly close with the twins – not with Raistlin, at least, and he doubted anyone in Solace could say that. But he knew him well enough to mourn the passing of that young, brilliant mind, that he knew was sharp and quick as a steel blade. Not to mention that it was obvious that Caramon plain and simple couldn't and wouldn't cope without his brother, so attached he was. 

That frantic attachment of his at times was plenty worrying, though for now Tanis was content not voicing his concern. 

Could it be-

Tanis haphazardly knotted the laces on his soft leather boots and yanked the woolen cape from the rack by the door, then hastily followed Caramon out; the warrior’s giant strides were closer to running now than walking. Countless thoughts swirled around in his head: what happened? Why was Raistlin calling for Tanis, out of all people? If he was the one to send Caramon for help, then he was presumably still conscious enough to ask for it – but how bad was he, that he felt the need to? Bad enough for him to admit it in the first place?

He doesn’t voice any of them: it’s obvious that now is not the time for conversations. He decides that he’ll figure it out as he gets there - or, perhaps, the twins would explain it to him as soon as the worst of it is all over. They wouldn’t leave him in the dark, after all.

Tanis is wrong. The twins explain nothing. He has to connect the dots himself.

When he enters the room, he sees Raistlin sitting on the floor, his thin silhouette wrapped in a ratty blanket. _Why on the floor_ , he thinks, baffled, and then Raistlin looks up – at first, Tanis thinks that he’s looking at him, but quickly realizes that this is not the case and that the young mage is staring at some place in the distance, over his right shoulder. His eyes are pink and swollen, and a thin webbing of red on the whites of his eyes unmistakably point towards recent tears. _He’s been crying, hard_ , Tanis realizes, _hard enough for the blood vessels to burst_ , and that thought feels him with such _anger_ he’s surprised.

Pushing that anger down, he approaches the young man carefully, sits down next to him. Raistlin turns his face away, but otherwise remains motionless, with only his hands that are half-heartedly holding up the blanket moving – no, not moving. Shaking. The blanket’s sliding off his shoulders, but the young mage doesn’t seem to notice. Tanis’s sharp eyes immediately start picking out details. He can see that under that worn out blanket, Raistlin’s wearing a shirt – his night shirt, going by how long and loose it is, and it’s torn down from his neckline. There seems to be some sort of wound on his shoulder - Tanis frowns when he finally makes it out. _Is that... a bitemark?_ His thin, bare legs stick out from under the blanket awkwardly. Right next to him, also on the floor, is a mostly full cup of lukewarm tea: judging by the half-dried puddle around it, he tried drinking it, but his shaking hands must have been too unsteady for him to hold it up properly, without the tea going all over the place.

Involuntarily, his gaze is pulled back towards Raistlin’s legs, looking strangely vulnerable. He doesn’t understand why, at first, but his mind catches up soon. There are dark lines running down his ankles – it’s not quite obvious, but it seems to be blood. Blood, running down his legs from the inside of his thighs-

Tanis doesn’t let himself finish the thought, instantly feeling all too cold, despite the morning chill having let him go as soon as he stepped into the twins’ house. The pieces come together. Torn nightshirt, falling off his shoulders. On his left shoulder, half-exposed – a bite mark, made by human teeth. His shaking wrists has been rubbed raw, in sharp, dark lines – ligature marks. Although he tries to turn his face away, Tanis can see that his face is smeared with blood. His curly chestnut hair is knotted.

And the worst of it all - his bare, bloodied legs, with his knees purple and black with fresh bruising.

Hurt and curled up under his threadbare blanket, he doesn't look a bit like himself, not the man that Tanis knew and came to respect - a proud scholar, a genius herbalist and an aspiring magician. No. He looks like a brutalized little boy, helpless and in pain. He looks like somebody in dire need of help, protection and comfort.

Tanis would not deny him that. Especially now that the violent picture of previous night's events finally connected in his head. There was no doubt in his mind about what exactly transpired here last night. He saw this exact scene before, the unfortunate victims of violence so cruel and unconscionable; victims of someone deciding to take whatever they wanted and take it by force, without burdening themselves with such things as humanity or compassion.

And that realization makes him acutely nauseous. This animalistic cruelty always did repulse him. He couldn't and wouldn't understand it. Perhaps, it was because he himself was the product of the same dirty cruelty: he wouldn't be standing here, in this small room, had it not been for a human warrior who once upon a time long gone decided to take and take and take something that didn't belong to him. And now, here was Raistlin, in place of his mother.

Anger and horrible pity tie themselves in a tight knot in a pit of his stomach, and he knows that he mustn't let that pity show on his face. Because surely, Raistlin would come to hate him for it if he knew.

That anger only grows stronger the further he notes the young mage's dire state. There’s extensive bruising and scratches all over his body; he was treated so _cruelly_ \- the amount of blood on his legs, on his torn nightgown and on the floor clearly shows that his attacker did not care one bit about how much he hurt him. In fact, it seems that the attacker was so forceful, the result was an extensive bleeding. He thinks again of his poor mother, and a part of him wants to turn around and walk away. Yet, even bigger part of him, the compassionate part that hurts and cares, makes him stay. He could not possible leave Raistlin like this, not after realizing what happened. _God_ , his heart clenches, _did he have to be that cruel, that violent?_ Raistlin was never physically strong; surely, he could not have put up any kind of resistance that would warrant _this_ kind of violent beat down – not physically, anyway, fragile as he was. Although it was possible that desperation caused Raistlin to fight back in a way that made his attacker think that it was necessary to squash his spirits completely and forcefully-

 _No,_ he stops himself, stops that line of thought. Nothing could possibly explain, warrant _this_ \- nothing could possibly make this right – Raistlin’s obvious and fresh fear of touch and eye contact, his trembling, narrow shoulders, his bloodied face.

 _I’ll kill them_ , he thinks suddenly, with a heavy certainty, _If I ever find the one who did this. I’ll kill him._

And then, _Caramon must be_ furious _._

This thought abruptly takes him back to the second twin: they were always so close, and the desperation of the situation was clear to him. So why was Tanis the one to help Raistlin try and stand on shaky, bloodied legs and move to his bed, instead of Caramon, who in any other situation would be so ready to help – or even sacrifice his life for his twin?

_Why wasn’t Caramon here?_

Later, he decides that Raistlin must have been too ashamed to show how brutalized he was to someone who knew him as closely as his brother; he probably cared about Caramon’s opinion of him more than about Tanis’s opinion. Sure, Tanis was a close acquaintance, a travelling companion, sometimes even a friend, but he was still on an entirely different level of trust than Caramon; their connection paled in the face of the twins’ deep ties. Perhaps, it was easier for him to show his vulnerability to someone he thought wouldn’t judge him.

At first, when he tries to examine the young mage, Raistlin seems numb. He’s quiet, staring at the wall with half-lidded, swollen eyes, and says nothing to any of Tanis’s questions – it’s as if he was dazed and stunned by some great explosion; the only sign that he hears Tanis at all is the way his eyes dart to his face from time to time, before returning to the wall. He never quite manages to meet his gaze.

But soon, that numbness passes, and instead of it, he becomes nervously animated, in a way that seems nothing short of unsettling. Instead of his previous stunted reaction, he’s almost overly sensitive, any little sound sends him jumping and his head turning this and that way in a search of some sort of hidden attacker. His unsteady hands flutter up and down, like he wants to grab something – but there’s nothing for him to hold on to. When Tanis softly touches his shoulder, wanting both to see that awful bite mark up close and to help him up to the bed, Raistlin shudders, from head to toes, and flinches away violently. His head snaps up, and for the first time since Tanis came he looks straight at Tanis. A moment passes, and Raistlin pulls back again, turning away from Tanis’s eyes. He doesn’t seem entirely in control of his own body. Every now and then, he leans into the half-elf’s arms, before snapping back again. Like his body craves physical touch, but his mind won’t let him. Or maybe, it’s the other way around, and he consciously seeks comfort in a touch that he _knows_ won’t hurt him, but his mind keeps screaming at him to _stay back, stay safe,_ and move away in fear of further injury.

When he leans in just a bit closer, just as Raistlin opens his mouth as if to say something - but his voice is soundless, and if he indeed meant to say something, the words never come - he notices with alarm that there's _blood_ on Raistlin’s teeth.

-It’s not mine, - he mumbles dully, when Tanis, alarmed by the sight, attempts to get him to open his mouth to check if he has all of his teeth in place, to make sure he’s not bleeding out of his mouth from some sort of internal injury. His voice is barely audible over the morning birds’ chirping. Did it mean Raistlin bit his attacker? _Must have been nice and deep_ , too. His attacker bit him, and Raistlin bit him right back. The thought feels him with a grim sort of satisfaction, and Tanis quietly hopes that the wound, wherever it is, will end up infected.

Getting him up off the floor was a torturous ordeal, yet necessary one; for the countless time Tanis wished that he was unconscious for it, but alas, the gods were not as kind as to allow him the gift of sleep. He's tense and rigid under his hands, however soft Tanis tries to make it seem, and his uncoordinated movements almost seem as if he's working against Tanis's effort to help him, not together with him. A brief spark of annoyance fizzles out as soon as it appears; it's clear that he's hurt and traumatized, and the way he flinches and bites his already bloody lips twists his heart. He can almost see how hard Raistlin is trying to save face, however little was left of it - a ruined mask of calm, betrayed by his trembling hands and suspiciously shiny eyes. Tanis pretends not to notice them - those tears of pain, fear and shame.

When he gets to the bite mark, Caramon chooses that exact moment to return. How long has it been since he first knocked on Tanis's door this morning? Hours or minutes? He opens the door quietly and then freezes in front of it, lingering. He's so uncharacteristically quiet, in fact, that Tanis doesn't notice him there, not with how concentrated he is on cleaning off all the blood off of Raistlin with a soft wet rag. The water in the bucket is pink by now, but at least they're mostly done with the worst of it, thankfully.

And having to convince him to stay still, murmuring soft reassurances all the while trying to be as careful and soft as possible but also quick and sure in his movements while removing every trace of that _beast_ \- that was a memory Tanis would be all too happy too forget. Yet, he knew that his mind would not let go of this so easily.

It is only after Raistlin suddenly starts to evade his hands and pulls that damned ratty blanket all the way back to his chin, before hitting him weakly in the chest with a fist - not to hurt, but to make him look - that Tanis realizes. They're not alone. And look is what Tanis does. He turns around, finally sensing a presence in the room, and meets the warrior's red-eyed stare. He looks away almost as soon as they make eye-contact, mumbles something and then, without closing the door, hurries away - both of them can hear his heavy steps creaking away on the floorboards. 

-It's alright, - Tanis says to him then, trying to comfort the obviously frightened youth - _and by the gods, he was so young still, wasn't he?_ \- It was just Caramon. I know you don't want him to see you like this, but he only wants to help. 

Slowly, Raistlin shakes his head - in disbelief, or in some sort of denial; denial of reality.

He closes his eyes when Tanis presses the rag back to his shoulder. Distantly, only thanks to his heritage, Tanis hears footsteps outside - Caramon, pacing in front of the house, back and forth. He has no doubt that after he's done taking care of the worst of it Raistlin will drift off to sleep, hopefully something deep and dreamless, but most likely not; he can already see his eyes drooping with exhaustion - or, perhaps, the result of the bump on his head that Tanis found on the back of his head, it's uneven surface hidden under the curls. 

Tanis also knows, that after he's done taking care of Raistlin, he'll go outside and take care of Caramon. 

What he does not know is how they'll get through this in the end. His heart clenches. He has no idea, and desperately wishes for some sort of answer - but nothing comes. 

_***_

_(it is only later in the evening, with both brothers finally asleep, Raistlin tucked away under Tanis's warm woolen cloak and Caramon tossing and turning on the floor just outside the door - not daring to go inside and face his brother, but also not daring to leave him defenseless - that Tanis finally remembers something disturbing._

_a sloppy, bloodied bandage wrapped awkwardly around Caramon's fingers.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there's a pretty good chance I'll post another chapter, as an epilogue of sorts. but just in case I never get around to it (since, y'know, updating the whole thing took me literal years since original posting date), the whole reason it all went down is that Caramon was drugged with an aphrodisiac at this intentionally-vague celebration, by a girl who fell in love with him and wanted him all to herself. except, Caramon headed straight back home after ingesting it and Raistlin, unfortunately, was the first to get in his way after it finally took effect.   
> so here you go. just in case someone was curious.


End file.
